Chapter II: Concluded (2)

To cement the union between these ambitious nobles, a marriage was arranged between the Lady Jane and Lord Guilford Dudley, son of the Duke of Northumberland. There was short time for courtship, and the practice of those acts of gallantry which the fashion of the day required. No sweet madrigal softened the way to the lady’s heart; nor had the appointed bridegroom much time for the display, on his breast or in his hat, of the little gold-embroidered and edged handkerchief, with the tassels at each corner and in the middle, which enamored damsels were wont to present to their favorites. The marriage followed close upon the agreement; the king, to show the pleasure which it gave him, was bountiful in his gifts. But even in this his natural love of economy was gratified; for the forfeiture of the effects of the duke and duchess of Somerset had placed at his disposal much rich apparel, not much the worse for wear, which he now bestowed on the bridal party.

Though the match was one of ambition on the part of the parents, it was well calculated to secure the happiness of the parties, for the Lord Guilford Dudley would seem to have possessed every quality fitted to win a lady’s heart, and to keep it. Besides the approval of the king, it met with that of the court and of the public, who, as the bridal procession passed along, were loud in testifying their admiration of the beauty and innocence of the youthful bridegroom and his lovely bride.

The pomp and splendor which attended these nuptials, formed the last beam of joy that shone in the palace of Edward, who grew so weak a few days afterwards, that Northumberland thought it time to carry his project into execution. How he effected his purpose cannot be better stated than in the language of Fuller. “King Edward, tender in years and weak with sickness, was so practised upon by the importunity of others, that, excluding his two sisters, he conveyed the crown to the Ladie Jane, his kinswoman, by that which we may well call the _testament_ of King Edward, and the _will_ of the Duke of Northumberland. Thus, through the pious intents of this prince, wishing well to the Reformation; the religion of Mary obnoxious to exception; the ambition of Northumberland, who would do what he listed; the simplicity of Suffolk, who would be done with as the other pleased; the dutifulness of the Lady Jane, disposed by her parents; the fearfulness of the judges, not daring to oppose; and the flattery of courtiers most willing to comply, matters were made as sure, as man’s policy can make that good which is bad in itself.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

THE BAMBOO.--This is an eastern production, of various and most important uses. It grows from fifteen to sixty feet high, being from five to fifteen inches in diameter. It grows as much as twenty feet in a few weeks. It flourishes wild in many places, but it is cultivated with great care in China and other places. The soft shoots are cut and eaten like asparagus, and sometimes salted and eaten with rice. The hollow joints afford a liquid, and if not drawn off, a concrete, medical substance. Its seeds are eaten as a delicacy; its large joints are used as buckets; and, in many countries, no other wood is used for building. Ships are framed out of it, and it furnishes masts and yards. Its leaves make fans. It is also used to make bows, and to convey water to a distance. It also forms writing-pens, and is woven into baskets, cages, hats, &c. Bruised into a pulp, it makes fine paper, and is also used for many kinds of furniture.

* * * * *

PRACTICAL ADVANTAGE OF SCIENCE.--The following illustration of the utility of science, in the common occurrences of life, is from the Genessee Farmer:--“A penknife was by accident dropped into a well twenty feet deep. A sunbeam, from a mirror, was directed to the bottom, which rendered the knife visible, and a magnet, fastened to a pole, brought it up again.”

GRANDMOTHER’S SCHOLAR.

_Grandmother._

Come hither, my poor orphan boy!
Come to your granny’s knee;
’Tis time that you should learn to read,
And tell your A, B, C.
It is not fit that all the day
Should pass in idleness away.

_Boy._

Oh, grandmother! the sun shines bright,
The bird sings in the tree,
The bees are out--_they_ never go
To say their A, B, C.
I wish I were a bird to play
Among the leaves, and sing all day.

_Grandmother._

My foolish child! the sun shines bright,
To ripen corn and fruit;
The bird has fled full many a mile,
Upon her fond pursuit;
And, for the little bees, there’s not
A flower in their search forgot.

_Boy._

But, grandmother, they do not learn
In little books to read,
They tell no crooked letters’ names,
And they’re well off, indeed.
I too would fly about all day,
And glad, so I might be as gay.

_Grandmother._

Poor boy! they cannot think or speak,
But what they have been taught,
With industry and studious care
They practise as they ought;
Do you remember, last July,
The nest in the hawthorn hard by?

_Boy._

Yes, grandmother, so soft and warm,
All twigs and moss without,
With quilted wool and slender straws
Plaited and twined about,
And then inside so smoothly spread,
Oh, ’twas a tempting little bed.

_Grandmother._

Aye, child, and all that moss and down
Was brought by many a wing,
Twigs from the distant upland wood,
Moss from beside the spring;
Remember, time, and pains, and care,
Brought all those things together there.

For do you think that in the tree
Itself the nest would grow,
So firmly built, and nicely wove,
And lined?--“Oh, granny, no!”--
Then think, how every bird that flies
Must labor ere his roof can rise.

_Boy._

But, grandmother--the humming bees,--
Well--on a summer’s day,
What can you see, from morn to eve,
So busy as are they?
Into each flower their trunks they dive,
And laden cluster round the hive.

_Grandmother._

Learning A B is not so hard
As flying all the day;
And to a bee’s industrious life
Your book is only play;
Beside, God gave you speech and thought,
To be improved, and ruled, and taught.

_Boy._

Ah, granny, this is very true,
But I should like to know,
If it is good to speak and think,
Why don’t the birds do so?
And why did God make them to fly,
And us to walk through wet and dry?

_Grandmother._

My child, why did he make the sun
Above our heads to glow?
Why did he bend upon the cloud
His bright and glorious bow?
Why did he make the thunder sound,
And draw the solemn night around?

Why, but because he saw ’twas _best_?--
He gave to flower and tree
The power to blossom, bud, and fruit,
And for man’s good to be.
But man, he made to praise him still,
And humbly do his Maker’s will.

And we do not his laws obey
In wasting time that flies,
Or being idle all day long
Instead of being wise.
Then come, my child, begin, and we
Shall soon outgrow our A B C.

Our Correspondence.

Thanks, gentle friends, for your many favors--but you must not expect me to insert them all here. I read them with great satisfaction, and even when you find a little fault, I am not the less pleased-- particularly if you tell me how to do better. But as to printing all your epistles, you must consider that I have Bill Keeler’s stories to put in, and the Old Man’s in the Corner, and a great many other things. I have, indeed, so many matters crowding into my columns, that I am this month obliged to leave out Dick Boldhero altogether! However, I find that our subscribers like Our Correspondence very well, and therefore I shall put in as much of it as my space will allow.

* * * * *

I am much obliged to A---- R----, who sends me the following

PUZZLE.

I am composed of seven letters.
My 3, 2, 4, is what boatmen do.
My 5, 3, 2, 1, is the most useful of all metals.
My 5, 1, 6, 7, is the smallest division of long measure.
My 6, 7, 5, 1, is a part of the face.
My 1, 2, 4, is the best time to do what is necessary to be done.
My 4, 5, 1, is what those who try for rewards of merit like to do.
My 3, 5, 6, 7, is what many people like to be.
And my whole is a town in Connecticut.

The following is very acceptable.

_Syracuse, July 7, 1844._

MR. MERRY,--I hope you will be willing to have a letter from
me, as I am going to tell about the salt works of this place.

Syracuse is a large town, with about 8000 inhabitants. A
mile from us, is Salina, a village in which are many salt
springs. The water is pumped out and conducted by canals
to Syracuse, where salt is made from it. The water is
stronger than sea water, and yields a great deal more salt.

The salt is made by vats, which expose the water to the
sun and evaporate it, or by boiling it. Both methods are
adopted. There are a great many of these establishments,
and it is supposed that this year they will all make four
millions of bushels.

One establishment puts up 1200 bags of 28 pounds each, a
day. They require about 1200 yards of cotton cloth, every
day, for the bags. You would be very much interested to go
into this establishment. There is a long flue, more than
seventy feet long, which runs under a great many kettles,
in which the water is constantly boiling. The salt is here
formed in crystals, white as snow. It is taken out and put
in a bin, where it looks like a great long snow-drift.

It is taken from this place, and put in a trough thirty
feet long and ten wide, with fire beneath; a sort of harrow
is made to work back and forward in this, thus stirring
the salt. It is then ground, and carried by machinery to a
place where it is put in bags.

It is really a curious place, and if you were there, you
would think salt as plenty as snow in winter at Boston.

The salt made at Syracuse is very much liked; some of it is
fine and nice for the table. Some is put up in small, neat
boxes and sent all over the country.

When you were here the other day, I got a peep at a man
they told me was you; but as he hadn’t a wooden leg, I have
some doubts whether it was really you. Perhaps your leg
has grown on again, or you have had one put in as good as
new--for it is said the Yankees, down east, are very clever
at domestic manufactures.

Now, Mr. Merry, if you don’t put this into your Magazine,
I hope you will at least say that you have received it.
I like the Magazine pretty well, but I didn’t understand
what that picture of the big, jumping bull meant at the
beginning of the April number. Perhaps you can tell me.

Yours,
J----S L----N.

* * * * *

☞ We are obliged to confess that our friend here has given us a good hint; the animal he mentions was meant for _Taurus_, the Bull, which is the zodiacal sign for April.

_Detroit, May 30, 1844._

MR. MERRY,--Will you allow me to tell you that I like your
Magazine pretty well--indeed, I may say, very well--but it
does not come regular. I go to the post-office a great many
times, when it should come, but I am obliged to go away
without it. You know “hope deferred makes the heart sick.”
So I am often disappointed. Will you do better in this,
good Mr. Merry?--and as you tell us many wise things, will
you set us an example of punctuality, and oblige your friend,

S----L M----LL.

☞ Thanks to S----. I will talk with the publishers about this.

The Snow-Drop.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB.

=For one or two voices.=

Now the spring is coming on,
Now the ice and snow are gone,
Come, my little snow-drop root,
Will you not begin to shoot?
Come, my little snow-drop root,
Will you not begin to shoot?

Ah! I see your little head
Peeping on the flower bed,
Looking all so green and gay
On this fine and pleasant day.

For the mild south wind doth blow,
And hath melted all the snow;
And the sun shines out so warm,
You need not fear another storm.

So your pretty flowers show,
And your petals white undo;
Then you’ll hang your modest head
Down upon my flower bed.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. SEPTEMBER, 1844. No. 3.

September has come, and it would seem by the picture, that peaches have come with it. This is indeed a fine season for our little friends who are fond of fruit, such as peaches, pears, and plums. Who is there, indeed, that does not like these nice things? But beware, boys and girls; do not indulge in them to excess. Even the best things in this world may be converted into evils by abuse. Even peaches, which are not only delicious but very wholesome, may still become the occasion of disease, if taken in undue quantities.

Thus you see that moderation is required of us in the midst of our enjoyments. But I do not intend now to preach a sermon. It is September, one of the pleasantest months of the year, and I have a few pleasant words to say about it. It is a season of delicious fruits; it is also a period when the excessive heat of summer is succeeded by the mild and gentle coolness of approaching autumn. The landscape has lost something of its brilliant verdure. The fields and forests are tinged with a sober brown. The leaves of the maple, the ash, and the oak are exchanging their green hue for brilliant dyes of red, purple, and yellow. Many of the birds are gathering in flocks, and, with much noisy chattering, are preparing to depart to southern climes, where they may spend the winter. The sparrow, the cat-bird, the thrush, and the towee-bunting have already withdrawn into the thickets. The robin has left the orchard, and retired to the forests, and the young crows, trying to caw like their fathers and mothers, are heard in the mountains.

Whoever will take a walk in the woods will see a great many of that splendid bird, which has so many names, glancing from tree to tree, and seeming to hold some very good-natured discourse with his companions. This is the high-hole, high pole, flecker, yellow jay, or golden-winged wood-pecker, whichever you choose to call him.

The gardener is now rooting up the weeds, and the farmer is getting in his second crop of hay, called _rowen_. The markets are now full of melons, and other fruits and vegetables, of many kinds,--potatoes, beets, carrots, cabbages, and tomatoes. Surely, September is a fine time.

All Hallow-e’en.

Among the inhabitants of Scotland, the last day of October is called All Hallow-e’en, or Holy evening. The people formerly had many superstitions and some pleasant customs respecting it. These still linger in the Highlands; and the following story, extracted from an English book, will give some account of the manner in which this evening is still commemorated there.

There are few Highlanders in whom the memory of Hallow-e’en does not awaken some pleasing recollections of the past, and with it are associated some of their happiest days. I propose to explain to my young friends some of the joyous festivities of this season.

Among many families in the Highlands, there were none I loved so well as the Graemes of Glennburton. Four merry girls and one quiet boy circled their hearth on the last day of October, the eventful Hallow-e’en. A crowd of young visitors was also there. The cheerful dance over, our dear and kind friend, Mr. Graeme, drank to many happy Hallow-e’ens, in which we noisy youngsters joined most heartily.

The nut basket now appeared. Nell Graeme, the second daughter, a tall girl of seventeen, singled out two nuts and said, “Who shall I burn?” At once, the whole group, who were quite prepared, cried, “Geraldine and Lord Elva.” The two nuts were placed in one bright spot in the fire; they burnt for a time most lovingly; but at last Geraldine bounded out of the fire. Oh! naughty girl--she had fairly quarrelled with him whom her young companions had declared to be her sweetheart.

Geraldine now sprang forward, and revenged herself by burning the blushing Nell with her coz. It was very amusing to watch the countenance of each damsel, as her name was given to the nut, and coupled with another. One girl blushed, a second laughed, a third cast down her eyes, and so on. Tired of this, they at length hurried to tea; and then came the real fun, as that noisy, pretty black-eyed girl, Jessie Graeme, declared.

Now, my young friends, follow me to Mrs. Graeme’s kitchen; yes, to the kitchen,--clean, bright, and pure enough for any one to enter; the floor well scoured and sprinkled with sand; the small copper saucepans and tin covers hung round the walls, shining and bright as burnished gold; the mutton-hams and other delicacies in such famous order hanging overhead. It was the abode of plenty and cleanliness; so I thought, as I entered it, and surveyed with delight the preparations for the “company,” as Mary the cook said.

A huge tub full of crystal water was in the middle of the floor, and a basket of immense rosy-cheeked apples. The company entered. Plump went three dozen apples into the tub, with a splashing that made the ladies retreat speedily. Mr. Graeme put numerous shillings and sixpences into the apples, and we all ducked to fish them out. Happy those who got an apple; thrice happy those who got money in their apples. Many untoward accidents occurred; Jane had fastened her long curls with a comb, and as she stooped and hunted down a rolling apple, Jessie Graeme, lover of mischief and fun, pulled out the comb; down went the ringlets, to assist poor Jane in her search after the apple.

Jessie laughed heartily, and in her turn danced up to the tub. No sooner had she bent over the water, than Hugh slily pushed her in, and the ill-fated Jessie fell plump into the water. Her brother helped her out, and though strongly tempted to cuff his cheeks for his impudence, she was obliged to march off and change her wet clothing. Tired at length of this diversion, “snap dragon” was called. “Hurrah for snap dragon!” cried Harriet Graeme.

A large flat dish, filled with whisky and raisins, cleared from their stalks, was laid upon the table; gloves and mittens were hastily torn off; pocket handkerchiefs, scarfs, and other combustible parts of the ladies’ dresses were put out of the way. There was a rush and a crowd round the dish; Hugh held the match to the spirits, and the blue flame flickered, and the “mountain dew” blazed gloriously. “Begin!” shouted Hugh.

Fifty hands were at once dipped into the snap dragon, and drawn back, carrying streams of the blue and liquid flame. Another plunge! fresh screams, and a river of fire on the table; the dish upset; Harriet’s dress on fire; Donald the gardener’s hair in a blaze. A hearth-rug nearly smothered Harriet, and a bucket of water cooled Donald completely. There was a universal burst of laughter; even Black Kitty, the cook maid, so called, from her jet black hair, was heard to giggle behind the scullery door; and Donald, now recovered from his singeing and ducking, roared himself into convulsions in the back passage. They now all began to count the raisins; whoever had the largest odd number was the lucky one. Merry Jessie was the lucky one.

The happy party now retired to the drawing-room, saying, that of all games, snap dragon was the most amusing. Up stairs, they found a blazing fire, and supper laid on the table. In the centre of it stood, most conspicuously, the Hallow-e’en cake, so delicately iced over and ornamented with a wreath and bunch of the last roses. This cake contained a ring, for marriage; a sixpence for wealth; and a thimble, for an old maid. The cake was cut up by Hugh. The youngest of the party took the first piece, and the gentle fairy, Minna Erskine, found the ring. Jessie Graeme darted forward, and seizing a bit of cake, crumbled it to atoms, and found the sixpence. Happy little pair, who, almost screaming with joy, fairly hugged each other with delight.

Dear mamma was declared a confirmed old maid by finding the thimble. The laughter of the young ones at this knew no bounds; but they were soon brought to order by Mr. Graeme, reminding them that it was within a quarter of an hour of midnight, and that “good nights” must be exchanged. The young ones quickly though reluctantly took the hint, and after affectionate kissings and greetings, from our papas and mammas, we all marched off, once more to talk of the events of the evening, and to anticipate and prepare for fresh sports and merriment.

* * * * *

BONAPARTE’S WIT.--Soon after Napoleon had attained the rank of captain, a soldier one day approached him, and showed him his coat which was in rags, at the same time demanding another in a dissatisfied tone. “A new coat?” replied the young officer; “you do not call to mind that your honorable scars would no longer be visible.” This well-timed compliment entirely satisfied the poor soldier.

After Napoleon became emperor, during a parade, a young officer stepped out of the ranks, in extreme agitation, to complain that he had been ill-used, slighted, and passed over, and that he had been five years a lieutenant, without being able to obtain promotion. “Calm yourself,” said the emperor; “I was seven years a lieutenant, and yet you see that a man may push himself forward for all that.” Everybody laughed, and the young officer, suddenly cooled by these words, returned to his place.

* * * * *

The following description of the gardens at the Tusculan villa, Belvidere, in Italy, is given by a traveller. “Behind the palace,” says he, “an aquatic stream dashes precipitately down a succession of terraces, and is tormented below, into a variety of tricks. The whole court seems alive at the turning of the cock. Water attacks you on every side; it is squirted in your face from invisible holes; it darts up in a constellation of _jets d’eau_; it returns in misty showers, which present against the sun a beautiful iris. Water is made to blow the trumpet of a centaur and the pipe of a cyclops; water plays two organs; makes the birds warble and the muses tune their reeds; it sets Pegasus neighing, and all Parnassus on music. I mention this magnificent touch as a specimen of Italian hydraulics. Its sole object is to surprise strangers.”

* * * * *

At Thebes, the coffins of mummies are burnt for fire-wood, and the ruins of limestone are burned for lime.

Bill and the Boys.

_The story of Dirk Heldriver, continued._

In a preceding number we have given an account of the manner in which Katrina was taken from her mother and borne away into the woods. We must now continue the story, as it was related by Bill to his companions.

Nothing could exceed the state of excitement produced upon M. Hielder by the news of the carrying off of his daughter; for a few moments, he seemed to be in a frenzy of rage, muttered the name of Hieldover between his teeth, clenched his fist, and uttered the most terrific imprecations. But in a short time, he conquered his passion, and, ordering six men to attend him, they all set out in pursuit of the offender. They had learned as well as they could from Madam Hielder the direction which the robber had taken, which appeared to be towards the mountains. They soon found the traces of footsteps which led along the bank of a small river that swept down from the heights. They followed these for about two miles, when the ground became rocky and broken, and they could no longer trace them. It seemed certain, however, that the stranger had ascended the mountain, directing his course to a deep and wild dell that lay between two rugged cliffs, that seemed to rear their naked heads to the clouds.

The party drew themselves out in a lengthened line, and proceeded to search the tangled valley that lay before them. The impatience of Hielder led him in front of the pursuers, and the excited state of his feelings made him almost forget his attendants. It was not long before he saw, or thought he saw, the object of his pursuit. He rushed forward, urging his way between the branches of the trees and the thick mass of underwood, regardless of the obstacles that lay in his path, his garments torn, and his hair streaming in the wind. He was soon separated from his companions, and entirely forgetting them, urged his way through the wilderness.

Again he fancied that he saw the figure of a man, at a considerable distance, bearing a child in his arms. He seemed to be straining up the sides of the mountains, and at a considerable distance. Hielder redoubled his efforts, and in his agony of mind, shouted aloud, filling the hollow of the mountain with his cries. For a long time he continued his pursuit, occasionally catching glimpses of the flying robber and his daughter, or objects that seemed to be such. At length he came to an open space, and on a rocky eminence before him, he imagined that he saw the form of Hieldover, holding out his child in triumphant mockery. Hielder was armed with pistols, and, snatching one of these from his belt, he aimed it at the form of Hieldover, and fired. This was instantly followed by a scream, which seemed to be that of the child. Smitten with horror at the idea that he had killed his daughter, the father sank down on the ground in a state of insensibility.

It was now evening, and M. Hielder, as we have stated, had been for a considerable time separated from his attendants. They had discovered his absence from their line, and for some hours had been in search of him. One of them heard the report of the pistol, and directed his steps towards the spot from which the sound seemed to proceed. In the darkness, however, he passed the body of his master, and continued to push forward. The pursuit was continued till morning, when the party collected together by means of signals, and began to deliberate upon what was to be done.

While they were thus occupied, they saw M. Hielder approaching. They were all struck with amazement at his strange appearance. His clothes were torn in fragments; his hat was gone, and there were traces of blood upon his face. His countenance was pale as ashes, and his eye had the startled and wild expression which belongs to a madman. He said not a word, and when the men addressed him he gave no answer. After a little deliberation, they concluded to return, and two of them, taking their master by the arms, led him homeward. He made no resistance, and, in the course of a few hours, they reached the house.

M. Hielder continued in a state of derangement for nearly two weeks. He was not violent, but his mind seemed constantly occupied with the vision of some object before him, which he earnestly sought to reach. Sometimes in his eagerness, he would spring out of his bed, and endeavor to pursue the phantom, which fled before him and eluded his grasp. At others, he would beckon to it, and again reach out his arms, beseeching it to come to him. He often uttered the name of Hieldover, and would frequently say, “Give me back my child; give me my daughter, and I will restore all. Be satisfied, Hieldover, with your revenge. Take the money, but give me my child. Is there such cruelty in the heart of man? will you wring the heart that is broken? will you grind in the dust the form that crouches at your foot? Do as you please--kill me, if you will, but restore to me once more my child.”

The wife of the poor man was unceasing in her attentions. Day and night she was at his bedside, seeking to allay the fever of his mind, and administering to him such medicines as the physician prescribed. Nor were these kind and skilful ministrations without their due effect. By degrees the symptoms of the patient became alleviated, and, in the space of a few weeks, his reason seemed to be restored. Yet his form was wasted almost to a shadow, and his mind seemed to participate in the exhausted condition of his body. He however gradually rose from this state of depression, and at last seemed once more in the possession of health and vigor.

His countenance, however, was greatly changed. The stern, dark, moody expression which formerly brooded over his countenance, had given place to settled melancholy, tinged with a somewhat startled aspect. His firm nerves, too, had become shaken, and the sudden rustling of the wind, or the sound of an unwonted footstep, made him tremble from head to foot. There was still a haughty feeling in him, which taught him to conquer these humiliating symptoms; but in the struggle between pride and weakness, an effort often took place, which was manifested by the large cold drops standing upon his forehead.

The early history of M. Hielder was unknown to the people around him. They were ignorant of the visit paid him by the stranger, who called himself Hieldover, and which we have already described. They were at a loss, therefore, to account for the events which had recently transpired. Who could have carried off the child? What motive could any one have for such an act? Why was the master of the house wrought up into such a frenzy? Why was he cheated with illusions, and finally driven to a state of madness in the mountains? These were the questions discussed by the gossips around the house; and as no better answer to these inquiries could be found, they were all resolved by the conclusion that the dark and mysterious being who carried off the girl, was the devil himself.

I am sorry to have anything to say about this personage; but a century ago, when these things happened, it was very much the fashion to lay everything to him which could not be otherwise explained. Of course, whoever undertakes to tell a story of that day, is likely to have something to say about him. We need only add, that we shall have as little as possible to do with him on this, as on every other occasion.

The suggestion having been once made that the scenes we have described were the work of a being of the other world, it soon grew into the established opinion of the people attached to Hielder house. Nor were confirmations of this wanting. Several of the servants declared that they had seen, in the evening twilight, a dark figure, with a slouched hat and wrapped in a cloak, moving mysteriously along the avenues around the house. Others insisted that they had seen a strange light dancing in the hollow of the mountain, where M. Hielder had met the strange apparition.

These tales soon reached the ears of their master, and he readily concluded that they might be founded in truth. He determined, therefore, to investigate the subject for himself. In the course of a few evenings, he saw a dusky figure standing in the shadow of the trees at no great distance from the house. He approached it, but it glided from him, and was soon lost in the depths of the forest. He, however, pursued the retreating spectre. He soon saw it again, and it seemed now to pause. He approached it, and could distinctly recognize the tall and majestic figure of Hieldover. At this moment, the latter spoke--“Approach me not, as you value your life; but if you wish to know the fate of your child, visit me to-morrow at this hour. You will find me at home in the mountains.” Saying this, the form departed, and was immediately buried in the mazes of the wood.

M. Hielder was thrilled with a kind of horror, but he determined to accept the fearful invitation. At the appointed time, he left the house alone, and set out for the mountains. It was now autumn, and the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees. The night was gloomy, and the wind swept in hollow gusts through the forest. The tops of the trees waved with an uneasy and troubled motion in the gale. There was no human voice to disturb the night, but many strange and ominous sounds came upon the ear of the adventurer, as he now began to ascend the shaggy sides of the highlands. The creaking of the trees, whose branches rubbed against each other, the shrill wailing of the owl, and the continued roar of the wind, served to increase his excitement, though not in any degree to shake his purpose.

Resolutely striding on through the mass of crumpled leaves that covered the ground, he reached, at last, a position that commanded a view of the spot where he had seen his child in the arms of Hieldover. This consisted of a mound of rocks, which rose in the form of a pyramid in the centre of a valley, scooped out of the side of a mountain. The whole scene was covered with trees, except a small space which encircled the mound. This consisted of a grassy belt, through which a small stream passed on either side of the pyramidal rock.

M. Hielder paused a moment to consider what course he should take, when a small flame gleamed upward from the very point where Hieldover was standing with his child, when he discharged the pistol, as we have related. Receiving this as a signal, he plunged down into the valley, crossed the stream, and, with an almost frenzied energy, began to climb the rocky mound. Seizing upon the branches of trees and shrubs, he clambered upward, and soon attained the point from which the light was still gleaming.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

“I won’t be trod upon with impunity,” as the steel-trap said to the fox.

John Howard.

This eminent and laborious philanthropist was born in 1727. His father was a London tradesman, who, dying early, left him in possession of a handsome fortune. Having always been fond of travelling, he conceived a desire to visit Lisbon immediately after the great earthquake. He embarked accordingly, but was captured by a French privateer. To this accident the world is probably indebted for the exertions made afterwards by Howard for the relief of prisoners. The sufferings which he endured himself and witnessed in his fellow-captives, made an ineffaceable impression upon his mind.

This was strengthened by his being made sheriff of Bedfordshire, when he had charge of all the prisons in the county. Shocked by the miseries and abuses which he found prevailing in these abodes of crime and misfortune, he set himself diligently to work to inquire into the nature of the evil, and, if possible, to find a remedy. During the year 1773, he visited most of the county gaols in England, and having obtained information on their management, he laid the result of his inquiries before the House of Commons. In 1774, two acts were passed; one for relieving acquitted prisoners from the payment of fees; the other for preserving the health of the prisoners.

Howard being once actively engaged, became more and more devoted to his benevolent pursuits. He travelled repeatedly over Great Britain, sometimes even extending his journeys to the continent, visiting the most noisome places, and relieving the wants of the most wretched objects. In 1777, he published a quarto volume containing details of prisons in various places, and containing a mass of information really astonishing, when we consider that it was obtained at the constant hazard of his life from infection, and by untiring and unassisted labor.

The importance, both in prisons and hospitals, of preventing the spreading of infectious diseases, produced in Mr. Howard the desire to witness the success of the Lazaretto system in the south of Europe, more especially as a safeguard against the plague. Danger or disgust never turned him from his path, and on this occasion he went without a servant, not thinking it right, for convenience’ sake, to expose another person to such a risk.

In 1785, he travelled through France, Italy, and thence to Smyrna, where the plague was raging, in order that he might undergo the quarantine at Venice, to which place he sailed. In 1787, this devoted man returned home and published the result of his foreign travels. Two years after, he renewed his travels on the continent, intending to go to Turkey. He had, however, proceeded no further than the Crimea, when a rapid illness, which he believed to be an infectious fever, caught in prescribing for a lady, put an end to his life, January 20th, 1790. He was buried at Cherson, and the utmost respect was paid to his memory by the Russian government.

Mr. Howard’s character was pure and simple; without great talents, but accomplishing much by devoting his whole energies to one good object. He was abstemious in his habits, and capable of going through great fatigue, spending freely both his fortune and constitution in the cause to which his life was devoted. He was twice married, and lived at Cardington, near Bedford. He had one son, who unfortunately became insane.

Lovewell’s War.

There are few passages in history more remarkable than that which is known by the above title. It displays the daring character of the settlers of New England at the period, as well as the ferocious and crafty spirit of the savages. It is a bloody story; yet it may be well to make our readers acquainted it.

Before the subjugation of Canada by the British, the New England settlements were constantly exposed to the hostilities of the eastern Indians, and a spirit of jealousy and revenge was kept up, not only between the different nations, but also between individuals. The boundaries of the different territories being loosely defined, left both sides exposed to real or fancied encroachments; so that pretexts for war were always at hand. The French Jesuits had planted themselves among the Indian tribes at an early period; and at the beginning of the eighteenth century, they had two churches among the eastern Indians, the one at Penobscot, and the other at Norridgewock, within the boundaries of the present State of Maine.

At the latter resided the Jesuit Sebastian Rasle, a man of talent, learning and address, who, by accommodating himself to the Indian mode of life, and maintaining a gentle, condescending deportment, had completely won the affection of the savages, and his influence over them was supreme. Knowing the power of superstition over their minds, he took advantage of this, and of their prejudice against the English, to strengthen the interest of the French among them. He even made the offices of devotion serve as incentives to their ferocity, and kept a banner on which was depicted a cross surrounded by bows and arrows, which he was accustomed to hoist on a pole at the door of his church, and gave the Indians absolution, previous to their setting out on a warlike expedition.

The governor of Canada held a constant correspondence with this Jesuit, and received through his hands information of anything that transpired among the tribes in that quarter. From these individuals, the savages received every encouragement to assert their title to lands occupied by the English, and to molest the settlers, by killing their cattle, burning their haystacks, and robbing and insulting them. Many of the inhabitants, alarmed by these demonstrations of hostility, removed from the frontiers in 1720. The garrisons were reinforced, and scouting parties were sent abroad, which checked, for a time, the hostile movements of the Indians, who were compelled, the same year, to give hostages for their good behavior. This last requisition was highly disrelished by the governor of Canada, who renewed his efforts to keep up the quarrel, and secretly promised to supply the Indians with arms and ammunition, although, as Great Britain and France were not then at war, he could not openly assist them. The New England governments obtained information of these intrigues; yet, though highly incensed, they judged it best not to rush into hostilities. The main dispute lay between the Indians and the proprietors of the eastern lands, and the public were not directly concerned in it. No blood had as yet been shed within the limits of the English territory.

Rasle was considered to be the principal instigator of the Indians, and it was thought that if he were removed, all would be quiet. A proposal was made to send the sheriff of York county with a posse of a hundred and fifty men, to seize him and bring him to Boston; but this bold stroke was not ventured upon. In the summer of 1721, Rasle, in company with the Count de Castine from Penobscot, and Croisil from Canada, appeared at one of the English garrisons, and presented a letter, written in the name of the several Indian tribes, to Governor Shute of Massachusetts, declaring that “if the English did not remove in three weeks, they would kill them and their cattle, and burn their houses.” The lands in question were comprehended within the limits of the English patents, and the settlers were considered the only legal proprietors. They had been accustomed to obtain regular deeds of sale from the Indians, and pay them a valuable consideration; but some of these titles were of obscure and uncertain original, and the memory of such transactions is soon lost among people who possess no written records. The Indians easily forget the sales made by their ancestors, or imagine that such bargains are not binding upon their posterity.

The Massachusetts government, on receiving this menacing epistle, sent an additional force to the Maine frontier, and being desirous to avoid a rupture, invited the Indians to a conference, from which the French emissaries were to be excluded. This invitation was treated with neglect; and in the succeeding winter, a party under Colonel Westbrooke was ordered to Norridgewock, to seize Rasle. They reached the village undiscovered, but before they could surround his house, he had escaped into the woods, leaving his papers in his strong box, which they brought away without committing any act of violence. Among these papers were his letters of correspondence with the governor of Canada, which afforded positive proof that he was deeply engaged in intrigues to incite the Indians to hostilities. The savages were enraged at this attempt to seize their spiritual father, and resolved upon revenge. In the summer of 1722, they made a descent upon the settlements at Merry Meeting Bay, and captured nine families. Dismissing some of the prisoners, they retained enough to secure the redemption of their hostages in the hands of the English, and sent them off to Canada. Their next attack was on the fort at St. George, on the Ameriscoggin, where they were repulsed with considerable loss. They afterwards surprized some fishing vessels in the eastern harbors; and at length made a furious attack on the town of Brunswick, which they destroyed. These hostilities determined the government of Massachusetts to issue a declaration of war against them, which was published in form at Boston and Portsmouth, on the 25th of July, 1722.

(To be continued.)

Echoes.

Echoes reside, for the most part, in ruined abbeys, in caverns, and in grottoes; they reverberate among mountains, whisper in the areas of antique halls, in the windings of long passages and in the melancholy aisles of arched cathedrals. There is an ancient portico near the temple of Clymenos, in the district of Cythonias, which repeats every given sound three times.

At Woodstock there was one which was said to have returned seventeen syllables during the day, and twenty in the night. In the sepulchre of Metella, the wife of Sylla, an echo repeated five different times, in five different keys; and it is said that on the banks of a river, near Coblentz, an echo recited seventeen times. He who spoke or sung could scarcely be heard, and yet the responses were loud and distinct, clear and various; sometimes appearing to approach, and at other times to come from a great distance, much after the manner of an Æolian harp.

In the cemetery of the Abercorn family, at Paisley, in the county of Renfrew, there is an echo exceedingly beautiful and romantic. When the door of the chapel is shut, the reverberations are equal to the sound of thunder. Breathe a single note in music, and the note ascends gradually with a multitude of echoes, till it dies in soft and most bewitching murmurs. If the effect of one instrument is delightful, that of several in concert is captivating, exciting the most tumultuous and rapturous sensations. In this chapel, lulled by ethereal echoes, sleeps Margery, the daughter of Bruce, the wife of Wallace and the mother of Robert, king of Scotland.

A singular echo is heard in a grotto near castle Comber, in Ireland. No reverberation is observed till the listener is within fifteen or sixteen feet of the extremity of the grotto; at which place a most delightful echo enchants the ear. Most travellers have heard of the eagle’s nest near Mucross Abbey, on the banks of the lake of Killarney. This celebrated rock sends forth the most fascinating repercussion. Sound a French or bugle horn, and echoes, equal to a hundred instruments, answer to the call! Report a single cannon, and the loudest thunders reverberate from the rock and die in endless peals along the distant mountains.

A nobleman’s seat about two miles from Milan produces such a surprising echo as can scarcely be equalled in the world. Mr. Addison observed that upon firing a pistol, he heard the sound returned fifty-six times, though the air was then foggy, and consequently not proper for making an experiment to advantage. At first, the repetitions were very quick, but the intervals were greater in proportion as the sound decayed. This astonishing echo was probably never designed by the architect, but it is occasioned by two parallel walls of a considerable length, between which the sound is reverberated from one to the other till the undulation is quite spent. Some persons assert that the sound of one musical instrument in this place resembles a great number of instruments playing in concert.

Dick Boldhero.